East Lambrook Manor Garden : Snowdrops

In a book published in 2014, The Galanthophiles: 160 Years of Snowdrop Devotees by Jane Kilpatrick and Jennifer Harmer, they describe snowdrops coming of age "between 1854 and 2014". The book  "explores not only the discovery of new variants and species during that time but also the stories of the ardent enthusiasts who sought out, cherished, and shared these deceptively fragile white flowers." And I think that's it, that is why I love snowdrops, those deceptively fragile white flowers that contain a botanical anti-freeze allowing them to emerge in the coldest of winter months and bring promise to the late winter landscape.

I cannot recall the first time I visited East Lambrook Manor near South Petherton in Somerset and while not an annual visitor I have been here a number of times, to look at snowdrops in particular. This Grade 1 listed garden, while important in its own right as the foundation of the cottage style garden, is a mecca for the Galanthophile.  I do not class myself as one, I simply like snowdrops. 

Much has been written of the origin and history of snowdrops in Britain, therefore I'll only briefly mention some of that here as there is no definitive answer to that question, and I like that vagueness. 

The accepted wisdom is that the species referred to as the native snowdrop Galanthus nivalis is not native to Britain at all.  That is probably true, however the origins of this snow piercer in the British Isles is a little murky, with its first recorded mention in literature being within General Historie of Plantes by John Gerard printed in 1597. However these were snowdrops already growing in gardens and monasteries, and they were not called snowdrops by Gerard but described as Leucojum bulbosum praecox minus –  or as he called them ‘Timely flouring bulbous Violet’. 

Some references head further back into history, citing that with the retreat of the last Ice Age, snowdrops may have colonised Britain naturally from their core regions today of the Caucasus and Western Asia, with records being lost in the historic pollen samples. This may possibly be true, though it could be argued why did they not survive this colonisation in temperate Britain? But it is highly probable that the Romans at least knew of snowdrops and may have brought them to Britain as their Empire expanded. It is natural for people when living away from home to have a little reminder of their native area. All the more intriguing given that Galanthus the general name for snowdrops is derived from two Greek words meaning ‘milk’ and ‘flower’ referring to the white petals and Nivalis from the Latin word for ‘snow’.

The ability of snowdrops to push through snow is also suggested for the explosion of snowdrop records in Britain in the mid Victorian era when it is thought soldiers returning from the Crimea War brought with them snowdrop bulbs found naturally in the region, as a reminder of the first sights of spring during a bitter war.  

Or maybe it was the Vikings, who we now know traded extensively with southern Europe and the middle east. Or the Normans as they arrived on Britain's shores. It is intriguing and what garners my thoughts is we now know a lot more about early history, how populations traded and moved about a lot more than previously thought.

It is well documented that religious sites were possibly a nucleus of snowdrops in Britain during the Medieval period, especially out to the west in Wales and Ireland. Those monasteries, abbeys being the centre of not only learning but mediaeval medicine, were associated with the local, shall we call them native, physicians. Monks and religious followers travelled widely across Europe and Asia bringing with them knowledge of botanical medicine, with a chemical (an alkaloid galantamine) derived from the bulb of snowdrop being first mentioned by ancient Greeks for its mind-altering properties and used for centuries in the treatment of headaches, nervous tension and to ease migraines. Is it then a simple leap of faith to suggest snowdrops have a longer history in Britain than wisdom decrees, through ancient medicine and monastic herbal gardens.

My historical context with East Lambrook Manor is not as long and as I have mentioned I don't have any documentation to confirm when I first visited.  History is a funny thing. This is not a garden to come and walk amongst the drifts of snowdrops through woodland. It is a modest garden which displays over 100 cultivars of the twenty or so species of snowdrop known. There may be 21 species now, I'm sure I read somewhere on my visit a new species has been discovered. Margery Fish (1892 –1969) who bought this manor and garden to get away from the London Blitz admitted herself she was not a gardener when she arrived. Yet in a few decades she became a leading authority on the informal cottage style garden planting which broke the mould of the more rigid and formal Victorian and Edwardian bedding. 

She also liked snowdrops, though her first interest was the Hellebore genus. Eventually though she became an avid galanthophile which was explored in her book A Flower for Every Day, which includes an account of the giant snowdrop variety "S. Arnott", first exhibited at a Royal Horticultural Society exhibition in 1951.  Probably the most common species of snowdrop is the native snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis, the giant snowdrop Galanthus elwesii and the  pleated snowdrop Galanthus plicatus which sits in the middle, size wise. From these three species hundreds of cultivars and sub species have emerged either naturally or through breeding, with it being estimated there are over 1000 cultivars of all snowdrops.

The more I looked at the very well arranged and labelled cultivars in the garden the less I realised I knew. From a distance they are low growing white flowers, but close up, snowdrops are unique, sometimes subtly sometimes not. Petal markings, leaf shape, growth habit are all different. I found myself eavesdropping the gardener at East Lambrook chatting to a serious Galanthophile, with them discussing that this variety is like that variety but you can tell them apart by the length of the green edge on a single petal, but only when the flowers are mature. I'm not sure I'm ready for that level of interest or knowledge.

As a simple rule though, of the three species above the best way to tell them apart is to examine the leaf. G. elwesii has a rounded (‘supervolute’) leaf base, while G. plicatus leaves have a folded (‘plicate’) lip along the edge. The leaves of the much bigger overall G. elwesii are fleshier and wider. I bought a species snowdrop myself G. gracillis which is tiny and has a characteristic twisted leaf. I think I may be getting obsessed.

What I enjoy about this garden is that it is well laid out, every clump of snowdrop is labelled, so as we wandered about I could take notes or photographs. At the time of our visit the garden wasn't too busy, but it was obvious those who came came for a reason, to discover more of these delicate little flowers arranged in a showing border like fairy hats on green stalks.

This cultivar I especially liked as it really did feel like white fishing fly on a rod and line, sadly though they'd sold out. 

This was the most expensive variety on sale, though recently I read that at auction a single snowdrop bulb Galanthus plicatus 'Golden Tears', sold in February last year for a record-busting £1,850.

While it is not advisable to grow snowdrops in containers, this single specimen is breaking free and has emerged between the cracks in some steps. How it got here made me wonder.

I did like the way the gardeners here displayed cultivars in these terracotta pots. They were not here permanently, just for the snowdrop month of February, but it allowed a closer inspection than getting onto hands and knees in the garden. This one above G. gracillis is one that I bought - a species snowdrop, the one with the twisted leaves. It may have cost £12.50 for a pot, but there are a dozen or so bulbs developing that I can see.

This variety I also liked, though a lot more expensive to buy, therefore I resisted. The green shading to the petals is a strong feature on this and another cultivar I liked G. philippe andre meyer whose green markings were very much like an exclamation mark. I really am becoming an obsessive. The variety below G. elwesii 'Natalie Garton' was one which Julie my wife loved, so we managed to purchase a pot of these to bring home, with a third variety G. elwesii 'Marjorie Brown' completing our spending today. In fact we bought these as Valentine gifts between us, something to look forward to in the years to come.

We'd spent nearly two hours wandering about in this gem of a garden. It made me think though that even though snowdrops are seen as ubiquitous today it was not until 1753 that the Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus reclassified the snowdrop using the Greek and Latin term we still use – Galanthus Nivalis and in doing so, split this from another favourite of mine which I've long grown in my own garden for later spring show, the snowflakes or Leucojum species. Then in 1805 snowdrops were moved into the Amaryllidaceae family where they remain to this day, though a lot of chopping and changing is going on botanically at the moment.

After all that excitement I took our purchases back to the car and then returned for a well earned cup of tea, next to some snowdrops of course. 

These Are Fake Crows

What a commotion there was yesterday morning. I was idly sitting on the bed looking out of the bedroom window while we debated whether to head over to Wells for lunch or not; and while doing so my eye (and ears) caught sight of a noisy gathering in the hedgerow trees in the back field. With my binoculars always at the ready I had a quick scan.

There was indeed a corvid conflagration taking place.  The back field is a strange L shape and on the elbow of the L is a mature oak tree. Most years a carrion crow [Corvus corone] pair nest in the branches and with my telescope I've even watched young birds in the nest. Today however there were a pair of carrion crow battling with upwards of 20 magpie [Pica pica], and there was a real tussle going on. I tried to count the magpie accurately however the action, being both fast and furious, meant I struggled to confirm more than 20, I suspect though about 25-30. We do see large 'mischievous parliaments' of magpie here every winter, yet this one has to be up there with the largest. 

What these mobbing magpie were actually doing I couldn't quite make out. It isn't impossible that the carrion crow had already built a nest and laid an egg, but that would be really very early (even in this mild part of Somerset) given mid March is more usual. And I couldn't see any nest. Was this a turf war with the carrion back on their old tree and the magpie taking offence? Or vice versa? Sometimes I've seen such crow mobbing around mature trees or hedges if a tawny owl is day-roosting. Today however this was a definite direct mobbing of the carrion crow, who repeatedly flew at whichever magpie was incoming while also shooing away a few others nearby waiting in the wings. And not just in this one tree, the skirmishes went on all across all the adjacent hedgerow trees, both carrion crow working together wave after wave back and forth.

It was fascinating to watch and I have to say the crows gave up a tremendous fight, so much so that even with numbers against them after ten minutes or so the magpie dispersed and two flew into our fir tree to noisily complain of their failed squabble.  A fascinating observation of inter-specific behavioural exchange.

All of which didn't speed up our plans to head over to Wells, meaning it was just after noon by the time we arrived at the city, with a first visit to Waterstones for some ordered books, a bowl of soup to follow, and then with a lovely early spring day in the offing we headed into the Bishop's Palace to see the snowdrops. Virtually everywhere February is snowdrop month and the Bishop's gardens are no exception with guided walks and family days throughout the month. Today though was simply come and have a wander, which we did. Though the bulk of the snowdrops were not fully out, there was something pleasing in that they looked fresh and undamaged, newly emerged. On this visit 90% of the snowdrops were emergent but in tight bud still with just those in odd sheltered areas open. Next weekend there is a tour with the head gardener, we may have to return now we've purchased our annual ticket.

The Spring Room with Cathedral beyond 

(Wells being named after the springs which bubble up through the rock)

One of the few clumps that were open and looking fresh and fabulous.

One of the spring fed ponds in the garden

Snowdrops awaiting to emerge en-masse in a few days

And a lovely quiet space where, as in Anglesey Abbey in Cambridgeshire, a woodland of silver birch provides a dramatic foreground to the looming lump of the Cathedral.

It was however on the way out that this notice caught my eye. I'd seen a couple of what looked like black plastic bags on the croquet lawn on the way in. Little did I know there were fake crows. Given the intelligence of corvids I'm not entirely sure half a dozen wooden rook on a lawn will prevent living and breathing corvids taking part in leatherjacket digging up. But it amused me the Bishop's Palace are at least trying an non-lethal way of pest control. Though I'd have thought removing the leather-jackets would be beneficial to a lawns' long term survival. Amusingly, inside the garden a dozen jackdaw [ Corvus monedula] were having a rare old time digging up another lawn. 

So fake crows in Somerset eh? Some would say the magpie pitching in against the carrion crow today were not true crows, but they're not fake, and I suspect if they ever flew the 20 miles to Wells they'd simply ignore the signs and mob those wooden rook anyway.

Simple Pleasures From The Office Window

February is here at last, I can feel the days relaxing, just a little, as the sun gains strength and lengthens the daylength.  Like many people I'm trapped in front of a computer most days, however since the Covid pandemic I've been able to work at home for three days a week. Three days which usher in the most simple of pleasures, watching garden birds from the office window.

This male great tit [Parus major] is in fabulous breeding form. His colours really pop in the dull beige-ness of a late winters day, especially the wing coverts which now are an almost lime green against a slate grey. In the garden I only ever see a single pair of great tit, therefore I can assume these are a resident pair. Although our own cat Gingernut has absolutely no interest in birds, we have neighbourhood cats marauding with intent within the garden. This means most of my feeders are high in shrubs outside the garden wall to keep preying moggies well away. Similarly I don't have a nest box which would invite trouble, but neighbours do. Hopefully then come the late spring there will be a few juvenile great tit coming to the garden, as I love watching them quiver on the wall waiting to be fed. 

My office is located in what can be comically be called the third bedroom. You'd have to be very thin to use this as a bedroom. As an office however it is perfect, book shelves, my desk and what I ostensibly call my reading chair, a much loved Cintique arm chair that the cat sleeps on when not being used as a storage facility. However from the desk where I'm writing this I have a view out over the countryside or look down to the feeders, from where all these photographs were taken. Adhering to strict health and safety guidelines while working on a laptop my regular long distance views are mandatory to save my eyesight, though to be honest there are maybe more views than close work script writing on some days.

Exotic and rare birds are always a fascination, yet for me I obtain just the same pleasure watching the birds using my garden as a territory. I love watching the house sparrows [Passer domesticus] bicker and squabble at the feeders. They've been a little in decline recently. They roost and nest in the roof space not just in my house but in a few neighbouring properties.  Not so many years ago I could count forty or fifty sparrows in the garden. Today half a dozen or maybe a few more is the norm. It's worrying as house sparrow are a species which require a colony to maintain a threshold size to remain viable as a breeding group. Here in the northern parts of Somerset there are whole areas which do not have any house sparrow present, and so those areas with sparrows are isolated refugia populations. Although not present in February of course, house martin [Delichon urbicum] too have all but disappeared from this area, with 2019 being the last time they nested successfully on my house. Last year I counted only a handful flying overhead in the evening and no active nests in the street. 

While this male house sparrow is easily identified from the female, the blue tit [Cyanistes caeruleus]  patiently waiting top right could be either sex.  Identifying male and female individuals of some common species is a tough ask.  Great tit males have a broader chest stripe to that of the female, but blue tits are pretty much identical. The books say females are not as brightly coloured as the male. In the field though this is a pointless piece of information when you have a single bird on a feeder. We get a lot of goldfinch [Carduelis carduelis] in the garden and while the males and females can be identified with a decent view, mostly they fly off before that occurs. Same with long tailed tit [Aegithalos caudatus].

Another bird exhibiting more or less sexual monomorphism [as it is called where both sexes look identical, as opposed to sexual dimorphism where they look different] is the collared dove [Streptopelia decaocto]. Now technically the males and females only look different close up, with males having a 'pinker' colouration to the neck and upper body, the female a more grey-sandy colouration. In the two images below I think - note think - the female is the one below looking left, and the male the one below that is looking right. But I may be wrong.  My inability to be certain of which sex these are by no means diminishes the joy of watching these doves with their gorgeous ruby eye during my frequent screen breaks. The same goes for the other species coming into the garden today, a pair of male robin [Erithacus rubecula] vying for domination of a feeder, or the male and female blackbird [Turdus merula] duo, the male having a well defined yellow eye ring, which at this time of year may mean it is a European migrant rather than a resident. Even the five magpie [Pica pica] cackling their annoyance in the fir tree could be of either sex, and no silver was offered either.

None of what I've noted really matters, what does for me is taking time to properly study these very common species of bird from the comfort of a warm house. In other words, detailed observation. Of course putting feeders up encourages their arrival and use of the garden but that's part of the joy. That and really studying what happens a stones throw away. How blue tit will not come to the feeders if great tit are there. Female house sparrow also dominate the feeders to the almost exclusion of males, often the latter only nip in when the females have gone, or the stand off between two male robins, or the beautiful colouration of a great tit. These really are for me quite simple pleasures on the first day of February.